Getting A Mom: Baby Sitting His Daughter

Chapter 7   (Oh Little Bully)   After what felt like an eternity, the phone in his secretary's desk finally rang. Maria answered swiftly, her tone professional as she responded, then clipped off the call. She let out a weary sigh, casting one last glance at the intruder.   “He’s sent for you,” she conveyed quietly. The woman rose, her face bloodied and unsettled—far from her usual calm, polished demeanor.   She grabbed her bag and headed back toward Ace's office, sighing deeply before gently pushing the door open, only to slam it shut behind her.   “First, I want an apology,” she demanded, but Ace barely looked up from his laptop, raising an eyebrow.   "For what?" he questioned simply.   “For embarrassing me. I deserve some respect.”   “Respect? For you?” His gaze sharpened as he fixed her with an amused yet cold stare. She nodded, and he chuckled.   “Amari, you barged in here and started arguing with my secretary. This is my company—not your father’s.”   “But she didn't let me in—"   "Didn’t let you in? Or did you fail to follow proper procedure?” His voice grew icier, eyes locking onto hers.   “I'm sorry, Ace. I was excited to see you—I missed you so much,” she rushed, eyes pleading.   “You didn't book an appointment, and now you expect her to ignore her duty?” he snapped.   “That's fine, Ace,” she muttered frustratedly.   He hummed, returning to his screen. "Hmmm."   “Are you just going to ignore me like I'm some kind of disease?” she pressed, moving closer, reaching out to touch his neck. “Ace?” she called softly, turning his face to hers. His sharp jawline and almond-shaped eyes always made her weak, impossible to resist.   “Amari,” he said, gently brushing her hand away. "I’ve got work to do. Besides, you didn't tell me you were leaving the country. You're all over me.”   Amari Sam—born into privilege, a 24-year-old self-made millionaire and sole heiress of Risam Group. Tall and slim, with runway poise and effortless grace. Her posture was impeccable, shaped by years of refinement.   Her face was delicately sculpted—high cheekbones, confident almond-shaped eyes, an elegant, straight nose, and full lips that rarely needed to smile to command attention. Her flawless skin seemed untouched by hardship.   Every move, every word, radiated the subtle assurance of someone raised in wealth and luxury, yet beneath it all, she desperately craved his attention, longing for his acknowledgment.   “I'm sorry I left so abruptly, but I sent the evidence and photos," she explained, her voice steadier, though Ace's expression remained unreadable—silence stretched between them.   “I know you don't love me, but I miss you, Ace. I miss your stares,” she paused. “You have every right to be mad I didn’t call, but you hardly pick up my calls. You only reach out when you miss me—"   “I don't miss people," he cut in coldly. "I don't hold onto feelings or affection. I only call when I need something. We both signed a contract—why make it a big deal? You're acting like I assigned you a role."   Amari's breath hitched as she stared in disbelief. Her eyes watered, but she sniffed, trying to compose herself.   "I get it. You don't have feelings, you don't miss people. But I do!" she insisted. "We’ve been intimate for two years. Fine, I messed up letting my feelings take over, but you’re so good—soft in many ways, even if you hide it. You long for love and affection, and I'm here—"   “For?” he interrupted emotionlessly.   “To fill the void. You’re not alone, Ace—"   “I never said I was," he responded flatly.   “I know, but I can feel it. Whenever we’re together, your touch, your presence—it's everything I crave. I need you, Ace."   “Is that all you want? Sex? Why beat around the bush?" His blunt tone made the air thick with unspoken tension, two years of contractual intimacy weighing heavily.   Amari didn’t flinch. Instead, she let a tear trail down her cheek, her voice soft but resolute.   “If that’s all you speak, Ace,” she whispered fiercely, "then yes. I want you.”   He paused, leaning back in his chair, unreadable. Then, with a deliberate click, he shut his laptop. The screen darkened, and the office basked in the amber glow of the setting sun.   “You’re messy, Amari,” he murmured, his voice low, vibrating. He didn't approach passionately but moved with purpose—like a predator knowing exactly what’s coming.   He stopped inches from her, taller, shadow enveloping her. He reached out to grip her chin, tilting her face up, his thumb brushing her damp cheek.   "If you’re so desperate to fill the void,” he whispered, a dark hunger finally surfacing, "then stop talking.”   Without waiting, he claimed her mouth in a kiss that was cold yet commanding. It was about hierarchy, not affection. Amari gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders, clutching his suit.   His hands moved with practiced precision—no fumbling, just control. He turned her around, pressing her chest against the cool mahogany of the desk. The contrast made her arch her back, a soft sound escaping her lips.   “Ace, please,” she begged, resting her forehead on the desk, eyes fluttering shut as his hands slid up her thighs, lifting her designer skirt.   “Please what?" he asked, voice close to her ear, devoid of warmth but full of intent. “I thought I had no feelings. I thought I was just a void.”   He leaned over her, weight pressing down. He took his time, fingers tracing her lace before hooking into the sides and tugging to reveal her to the cool office air. An exhilarating thrill coursed through her—despite her wealth and status, she was entirely at his mercy.   When he entered her, it was with a firm, relentless surge, not a gentle slide. Her fingers clawed at the desk, white-knuckled. The rhythm was steady, unwavering—a reflection of his controlled power, a reminder of their agreement.   He gripped her hips, thumbs digging in, anchoring her as he moved. Not once did he look at her face, but at her reacting body, her flushed skin under the dim light.   “Is this what you missed?” he growled into her ear.   Lost in sensation, she couldn’t answer, overwhelmed by him—the scent of cologne, musk, the pounding of bodies, the sense of surrender. She wanted to tell him she loved him, but she knew that would be pointless.   Instead, she tilted her head back, exposing her neck, crying out sharply as she climaxed.   He didn't slow—his movements grew more urgent, his mask of indifference shattering in the heat of the moment. Breathing ragged, he buried his face against her shoulder blades, his body tense.   After a moment, he withdrew abruptly, adjusting his tie before helping her up. His face returned to its icy, emotionless mask.   “I’ll call the cleaning crew now," he stated, glancing at his watch as if it were a routine update. “Don’t be here when they arrive.”